Smoldering

 

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

 

 

The leaves cling to the ground

With the first autumn rain

Skins slick with wet

As if churned from a summerís sweat,

The rubbing of limbs

The moan of pressing trunks

The expired sigh of each breeze,

All lost in this afterglow

Of changing seasons

And the expected chill

That makes limbs shudder

And press even deeper

To retain bits of warmth

And keep it all from oozing out

Winter being such a long

And exasperating time

That makes us cling

All the closer but without

The rage of heat,

we rubbing together

like stick against stone

expecting no burst of flame

but a slow and steady smoldering

we hope will keep us warm

until spring springs upon us again,

bringing back summerís bliss.

 

 

 


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